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Sometimes I think that Jesus must have been on the train.—Lost Property auctioneer

Who left them and how did they walk downthe long platform at Reading or at Slough?Did they abandon their trusty wheelchairsor throw down their crutches and take the stairsunaided for the first time in years, then hopinto a waiting van and say, “Let’s shopfor dancing shoes at McMurray’son the way?” Did they arrive and hurryup the nursing-home drive shouting, “I’m out of here!Pack up my stuff and buy everyone a beeron me?” Travel is a marvel, I know,but how could they up and out on their ownwithout braces or canes, not noticing they walkedwithout walkers, leaving passengers to talkof miracles or fraud, and why didn’t theytelephone to get their trophies and say“I’ve got to explain,” and “Who was that nice conductorwho came to my aid and helped me off the floorand said ‘Walk and fall no more,’ and werethere any witnesses so I can be sureof this business? Mind you, I don’t mean to complain,though while I’m on the line I’ll mention the trainwas more than forty-five minutes late.”It’s hard to win when the world knows you’ll fail—Did even one return to thank British Rail?

Comments

Michael O'Neill | 7/14/2008 - 3:11am

Editor, I went to correct the preview comment. & it somehow inadvertently was swooped away. this is how I wanted to correct it: For Tom Why? Because. Because why? Because the Clockmaker moves his hands, squirms a little & opens them. "See, nothing's hidden." I have to agree, but still I'd like to know how he did it. He won't answer. Only says, we all will fail. That was one of your worst, I would say. I would add asshole if he wasn't God. How do I know, you ask. I don't, the recurring dream arrives & says it's time. I plead, "I could cry salty tears..." perhaps by Billie Holliday, but I don't care whAT time it is, too many things left undone. I failed too God, so I can't leave now. I don't care about the prize or the question marks people have. I ony wanted to be good, well, most of the time. Like the time I found $400 on the floor of the crowded uptown Madison Ave bus, but you were gone then too & I gave it to desk sargent in the precinct. Two days before Christmas, 40 years ago. Rotten time. You don't have to know everything, even what time it is. Give beauty, beauty, beauty back to God Beauty's self & beauty's giver. Jesuits win. It's America. Michael O'Neill

Well it had a rhyme and a message. Is it a metaphor? It's a mystery to me. Why a winner and what is the message? I can understand the photo, the desperation on the front of the June 9-16 issue. I know the cause, I can grasp it and curse. The message is not obscure. Why? Why is my question to both Iraq and the poem?